


even if the skies get rough

by arainthatbindshearts



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Post Season 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arainthatbindshearts/pseuds/arainthatbindshearts
Summary: It is only then, when Shiro touches his scar, the apology unspoken but chiseled on the slope of his mouth and the stark set of his jaw, that Keith realizes he remembers.They stop before setting off to Earth to replenish their supplies and rest. Keith and Shiro share a room and some feelings.





	even if the skies get rough

The others ask Shiro—because Keith finds the words stuck in his throat every time he tries—if he remembers anything, and Shiro answers that the memories of his clone are now his own. 

What nobody asks is if he remembers the moments when he sabotaged the Castle, took Lotor, or branded Keith’s skin.

(What Keith doesn’t ask is if he remembers his plea, if he remembers falling)

 

They have taken some time before setting off to Earth to replenish their supplies. The colony Krolia has guided them to is small, and peaceful, and it is easy to find a hotel to stay for the night. He and Shiro share a room, and he doesn’t know if he instinctively headed toward Shiro when they started assigning partners, or if Shiro—who had barely woken up before they landed and still dripped with exhaustion—turned to him.

But here they are.

Keith has just gotten out of the shower; wet hair pouring small rivers down his shoulders over his chest and back. Shiro is sitting on his bed, petting Yorak as she nudges her head into his lap.

Keith smiles at the sight and Shiro looks up to meet his gaze, the lazy curling of his lips so achingly familiar—so warmly private—that the next breath that leaves his lungs hurts his chest.

He moves to finish getting dressed, avoiding the thought process that comes from that clenching inside of him whenever he looks at Shiro the wrong way; for too long; too closely; wanting and longing lighting every nerve. 

When he emerges from his t-shirt, Shiro is in front of him, holding his jacket out to him. He takes it, smiling as best as he can without giving himself away. He’s being doing it for years, because he is always been best at hiding away; and because no matter what Shiro may or may not remember or what Keith said, nothing has changed between them. His breath will catch whenever Shiro tilts his head to search his face, while the steady beating of Shiro’s heart will keep pushing warmth to every part of him, either unaware of Keith—muscles tensing and melting from the weight of a hand on his shoulder—or unwilling to hurt his feelings with a rejection.

"Are you ready to leave?" Keith asks, clearing his throat, smoothing the jacket against his chest.

Yorak noses against his pockets, snuffling audibly, and Keith pats his pockets for some treats.

“Sure,” Shiro says. “Just let me grab my jacket.”

Keith watches his broad shoulders as Shiro covers them, and he blinks when he recognizes the jacket. He shouldn’t be surprised; it was him who picked it from Shiro’s wardrobe as they were rushing to leave the Castle.

-

He’s been in Shiro’s room before, only not for a long time. As the doors slid open, he is reminded rather brusquely of the two years that has passed for him, and of the time before that when he left the Castle to work with the Blade.

The room hasn’t changed at all. Tidy and almost bare, only the usual work regimen pinned to the wall that makes Keith’s determined steps toward the closet waver. Suddenly it is like he is in the garrison again, Shiro taking him to his room for the first time, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, holding a towel against his bleeding nose.

_-_

_“Are you sure you don’t want to go the infirmary?” Shiro asks, for what feels like the hundredth time._

_“It’s just a bruised nose, Shiro.”_

_Keith would laugh, if the thick metallic taste on the back of his throat wasn’t starting to make sweat pour from every pore of his skin, his steps becoming more unsteady as he follows Shiro to his room._

_His voice must have wavered, for Shiro turns around. Keith would have bumped into him had he not grabbed his shoulders._

_“Are you feeling lightheaded?”_

_Keith shakes his head, but it is as good as doing the opposite, because Shiro is searching his face intently, and it must be impossible to miss the sticky sheen of sweat bathing his skin._

_For a moment, the only thing that penetrates his focused mind (don’t fall over, don’t pass out) is the determined expression on Shiro’s face, and Keith thinks he is going to pick him up. And because it is Shiro, he wouldn’t just throw him over his shoulder, no. He would cradle him against that wide chest and…_

_Shiro’s laugh brightens him away from that train of though. “Relax, I’m not going to carry you. The horror in your face.” Shiro shakes his head._

_Keith can only be relieved for half a second before Shiro grabs his waist to support him, their sides firmly pressed together._

_“Better?” Shiro asks, and this close, Keith feels the words form in Shiro’s chest before they break the silence, ribcage expanding as he breathes them out._

_“I wasn’t going to pass out,” he mumbles, staring straight ahead._

_“If you hit your head I’d have no choice but to take you to the infirmary,” Shiro reminds him._

_“I know, I know.”_

_Shiro only lets him go when they arrive to the door leading to his room. Keith stops putting pressure against his leaking nose, eager to finally learn what Shiro’s room looks like, a thousand quips about the decoration—or lack thereof that he expects—crowding his tongue._

_The yellow light that springs from the couple of downlights in the ceiling is the same that illuminates his room, but the similarities end there. As Shiro drags him to the bed, Keith takes everything in. It’s smaller than his own room, and the few displays of ownership—a couple of posters that Keith can’t quite make out from this angle, a training regime and a schedule hanging on the wall next to the bed, multiple books and spaceship miniatures by the shelves—make the room so undoubtedly Shiro’s that Keith finds the corners of his eyes wrinkling._

_“What are you smiling about?” Shiro asks, discerning, as he produces a towel from somewhere to replace the soaked tissue._

_The bed sinks under Shiro’s weight as he sits, Keith’s balance shifting toward him._

_“Nothing,” Keiths answers tilting his head back to let Shiro press against the pain on his nose, resting his weight on the palm of his hands behind his back, the cover of the bed soft beneath them._

_“You told me it was only one punch,” Shiro says after a moment of silence. “You have a cut on your cheek as well.”_

_Keith flinches inwardly. “It was only a punch from each of them?”_

_Shiro only sighs, and a stab of guilt flashes through Keith._

_“Who were they?”_

_“Just some assholes. You don’t have to worry about it.”_

_“I know I don’t_ have _to, but they should be written up. Two against one?”_

_Keith doesn’t answer. It’s not worth it, to lose their time—the few they have together, because Shiro is preparing for some important, classified mission—talking about people that don’t matter. The metallic drops down his throat diminish eventually, surrounded by a comfortable silence. Keith brings his hand to close over Shiro’s, letting him know the blood has stopped._

_Shiro removes the towel and looks at his nose, waiting to see if the blood will start pouring again, warm calloused hand cupping Keith’s cheek to tilt his head this way and that until he is satisfied. Then, he leans back, not before scratching with his blunt nail a bit of the dried blood away._

_“The bathroom is right there, you should rinse the taste off,” Shiro says, perceptive as always._

_The bathroom is tiny, but what Keith wouldn’t give to have one in his own room instead of being forced to share._

_The lone black toothbrush rests in a plastic cup, and the tube of paste next to it announces a ‘fresh peppermint flavor for sensitive teeth’. He hides his smile in a handful of cold water from the tap._

_He lets the fresh water clean the dense coating of metal from his mouth and washes the dried blood from his skin. When he presses his face against the towel hanging by the sink, the smell he is barely able to catch when Shiro hangs his arm around his shoulders—the distinct scent he thinks he only imagines when Shiro sits behind him as he pilots the hoverbike through the desert—invades his nostrils much stronger than usual. Keith wrenches his face away, heart beating too fast._

_-_

It is that same smell that welcomes Keith as he opens the closet in Shiro’s room at the Castle of Lions. And it shouldn’t be there, because they are thousands of miles away, and they are in space. The Shiro that slept here wasn’t even the same Shiro that was with him at the garrison.

He pushes those thoughts away from his mind and fills the bag with Shiro’s neatly folded clothes, latching to the small flame of hope in his chest, refusing to give in to the steady thrum of despair he feels when he remembers Shiro’s unconscious body.

He is leaving when he sees the jacket hanging behind the door. It is a black jacket, picked by him for Shiro’s last birthday after Allura and Lance insisted on buying him a shared gift from everybody. The three of them—Coran, Pidge and Hunk stayed to distract Shiro—searched the huge mall Coran had recommended for almost a whole day. He had been determined not to intervene, let Lance and Allura choose whatever space monstrosity they found suitable, but he’d seen the jacket from a window display, and Allura had caught him staring at it.

“Do you think he’d like that?”

“Yeah, he used to have one just like it,” he had said.

Instead of explaining that when he thought of Shiro—before Voltron, before intergalactic space travel—it was that jacket he pictured him in, the uniform too painful to remember because it was in that uniform that Shiro had looked to him, with unmoving eyes and frozen expression, as the reporter in the TV explained away his death.

It was that jacket he’d grabbed as they rode the hoverbike over the dunes and it was that jacket Shiro had draped over his shoulders once when he saw him shivering in the cold desert air.   

 -

“Keith?” Keith blinks back to the present, Shiro’s voice an octane louder than usual. “Are you there?”

“Yes, sorry. What were you saying?”

“It’s the sleeve. Do you mind tying it into a knot? So it doesn’t get in the way,” he explains, waving his hand around the stump of his arm.

Yorak nudges his hip for one more pat on her head. After complying he walks to Shiro, a couple of steps away.

The jacket is soft beneath his fingers. Shiro’s breath tickles his forehead as he bends his head over the sleeve to tie it into a loose knot. Gaze wandering as his fingers work, he notices Shiro’s wet hair from the shower, tips curling softly against his neck, longer than what Shiro usually prefers.

 “Done,” he announces, leaning slightly back.

Keith allows his hands to linger on Shiro’s shoulder, the place where _—_ underneath the jacket _—_ metal meets flesh. He swallows the memory of slicing through the warped prosthetic; of Shiro’s pained gasp as he woke up; of the tight-lipped expression he wears when he thinks nobody is looking—the exposed wires of the arm clearly hurting him—and forces his fingers to fall away.

“Does it still hurt?” Meeting Shiro’s unwavering gaze. His eyebrows twitch slightly, muscles fighting back surprise. “You thought _I_ wouldn’t notice?”

Keith lets his voice pander to old banters, gambles a half smile to hide the guilt away, and is rewarded with a quick flash of white teeth.

“Of course you did.”

“Well?”

“It was worse when I woke up. It’s simmered down since.” Then, faced with Keith’s raised eyebrow: “Really, I swear.” Another smile, longer this time, and the low breath of laughter.

“I think you should tell the others, maybe they can help.”

“I just… I didn’t want to worry them.”

“They care about you, of course they worry.”

And, in the aware silence that follows, it is like hiding behind a generic ‘ _they need you’_ again, when the crushing relief of finding Shiro alive floating through space made any other sentence too raw to express; maybe it is like every time he has choked on the words that fought to leave his lips—before the Kerberos mission, wind blowing around them and Shiro tucking a lock of hair behind his ear; staring right at Shiro’s solid trust, pride lighting his eyes and firm arms surrounding him—

But he has said the words. And maybe he needs to be struggling for breath to say them again.

He is met by Shiro’s gaze, half-lidded eyes heavy with something that melts around the corners, head tilted to the side, a slight frown between his brows. The ghost of the tired smile he’s worn since waking up is gone, and instead the corners of his mouth point downwards.

Shiro’s hand on his cheek renders him silent; unmoving; lips parted in surprise until he feels the pad of Shiro’s thumb ghosting over the newly scarred flesh. For a second, Keith closes his eyes against the soft touch; tender, as he has never allowed himself to imagine; unexpected, after teaching himself not to hope. 

It is only then, when Shiro touches his scar, the apology unspoken but chiseled on the slope of his mouth and the stark set of his jaw, that Keith realizes he remembers.

(the frenzied fight, the hard crash of bodies, the edge of a blade against parting flesh; against screeching metal)

(perhaps even a confession, words never uttered before)

They are gazing at each other, silence stretching until the only thing that tells Keith they are still inside the current of time _ _—__ a current he’d be happy never to return to _—_ is the growing warmth that seeps from the contact.

But Shiro’s teeth clearly hide an apology behind his lips, one Keith doesn’t want to hear _—_ doesn’t _need_ to hear.

“Shiro, it’s ok,” he says, breath washing over Shiro’s hand, voice quiet and assured as he learned from Shiro, when only his voice would allow the furious beating of his heart to find solace, away from a turmoil of loneliness and insecurities.

“Keith…” Shiro says, eyes closing as he inhales deeply.

“I mean it,” says Keith firmly, louder than before, pretending Shiro isn’t as stubborn as he is.

“I’m so sorry.” Opening his eyes.

Keith misses his touch instantly, even though there is warmth still curling on his skin. Shiro’s hand travels to barely cover the bruise on his chin, to rest against Keith’s side under his jacket, where Shiro probably saw the bruises as Keith left the shower.

“There’s nothing that you need to apologize for,” he says, grabbing Shiro’s hand and grasping it firmly between his own. After a moment of hesitation, in which Shiro’s gaze flutters to their clasped hands and then back up to meet Keith’s eyes, Shiro squeezes back. Keith won’t let go until the storm behind the grey eyes rests easy, and even then—after the tension in Shiro’s shoulder slowly melts away and his brow softens—the contact lingers, touch that returns touch as Shiro rubs his knuckles with his thumb and his own fingers skim over the delicate skin of the inside of Shiro’s wrist, carving the combination of tendons, bones and beating pulse into his mind.  

Managing to easily breathe becomes a task instead of mere physiology. Heat spreads across his face, and he should turn away— _would_ turn away—if Shiro’s next hesitant flutter of breath, mixing with his own, didn’t form his name, spoken unhurriedly like the first burst of light as the sun dawns.

The knock on the door makes them both take a step back; the intruding, sudden sound in the tender moment almost violent.

Hunk’s voice comes through the door, beckoning them to leave for dinner already. Keith's frustration takes the better of him as he yells that they'll be right there, louder than strictly necessary, voice harsh that hurts his throat and wrenches him out of whatever limbo they had created for a moment. 

Shiro clears his throat when Keith turns to him. He is blinking, eyes darting from Keith to the door and back again.  

“Yes… Maybe, we should get going. We don’t want to make everyone wait.”

“Yes.” Keith’s voice is hoarse, maybe from the scream. 

“We should get going,” Shiro repeats again. And after a motionless moment, taking action from his words he moves to the door, hand scratching the side of his face.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic is from the song "I Won't Give Up" by Jason Mraz. Please listen to it while thinking about Sheith (you will probably cry)  
> Also I'm sorry for the anticlimactic ending iafhihidljfagdj I somehow wanted to make it last a little longer, I promise there WILL be KISSES in the second chapter.  
> I actually hope Keith's wolf will be called something similar to Thunderstorm Darkness but I thought it would be funny to name her Yorak (oh also i headcanon it's a she-wolf haha)  
> Finally, thank you so much for reading!!!!! I've only published one other fic in another fandom but sheith is so Good and Tender and Pure it made want to write fic again, so hope you enjoyed it!!!!!


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